


Apocrypha

by Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [35]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:40:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: A home for various short snippets and scenes written in response to Tumblr and Dreamwidth prompts.





	1. Don't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> I'm grouping these pieces together because none of them are true one-shots; they are all waiting to be worked into longer stories in the _Nárë a Lindalë series_. I called the collection 'Apocrypha' as I can't promise they won't be tweaked, edited or even completely re-written, if and when they do make it into standalone works, but I didn't want to leave them scattered across my blogs given current levels of internet meltdown (*cough* nipplegate etc.)
> 
> May contain spoilers and red herrings; proceed at own risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel gave me the prompt "Don't Let Go" on Tumblr.

“Finwë.” Her grip on his wrists was light yet firm. “Stop this. It is not what she would want; can you not see that? Think of your people – think of your son!” 

“As she has chosen, may not I choose also?” He turned his face to the pale light of the Mingling. “I cannot understand it. She has left me…as he did, long ago.” 

“Left _us_ ,” Indis corrected sharply. “And we cannot know what happened to Élernil*; it is useless to compare the two.” She hesitated, then loosened her grasp and traced circles on his forearms with her thumbs. “Finwë, I beg you, do not let go. If you love me at all – if you love Fëanáro – hold now. Hold, and endure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Many thanks to [_Spiced_Wine_](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine) for allowing me to use her wonderful OC Élernil/Edenel in my fics.
> 
>  


	2. Be Careful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spiced_Wine gave me the prompt "Be Careful" on Tumblr.

“You cannot give me this.”  

Elemmakil smiled, and he closed Voronwë’s fingers over the brooch.  “I will have no arguments.  It has always brought me luck; may it do the same for you.” 

Voronwë looked into the pale green eyes, then smiled and fastened it to his cloak.  “May it do the same for all of us.” 

“Ah, my friend.”  Elemmakil trailed his fingertips across the back of Voronwë’s hand, then pulled him into a tight embrace.  “Be careful.  The lands of Middle-earth are no longer safe – if, indeed, they ever were.” 

The soft wool of Elemmakil’s cloak tickled Voronwë’s cheek.  He closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of grass and rain-fresh wind.  “It is not the land I fear.” 

He felt Elemmakil’s lips press against his temple.  “Come home soon, my dear.  I will miss you.”


	3. Toys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Toys" for FFFC Bingo.

The lamplight burned golden in Fëanáro's workshop, warm against the cool silver gleam of Telperion in the streets. He stooped over his latest project, a furrow between his brows, craftsman's fingers delicately grasping the finest of brushes to paint ambling bears and graceful swans onto the box's glossed wooden surface. 

Ñolofinwë waited for his brother to pause in his labours before speaking. "It's beautiful." 

Fëanáro straightened, and smiled wearily. "How long have you been there?" 

"A while. I did not wish to disturb you." 

A nod of acknowledgement. "How is she?" 

"Much the same." 

Fëanáro turned back to his work. "She will not die, Ñolofinwë." His silver eyes blazed. "I will not allow it." 

_Such things are not in your gift, brother_. Ñolofinwë did not voice the thought - but the flare of anger on his half-brother's features told him that Fëanáro had heard anyway.  

For once, though, the infamous temper did not rise. Instead, Fëanáro gestured to the little wooden box. "It plays her lullaby." He turned the little key set into its front. "Listen." 

A tinkling, simple arrangement of the lilting tune Faniel loved drifted from its interior. Ñolofinwë smiled, and blinked against the prickling of his eyes. 

Fëanáro gestured around the workshop. Instead of the usual scientific contraptions and intricate jewellery, the shelves were full of toys - brightly coloured building blocks, sweet-faced dolls, complex models made of slender gold rods and glass in ice-hued pastels, spinning tops, skipping ropes, a counting frame - and in one corner, a roughly hewn rocking horse, awaiting polish and paint. "It's all for her. When she wakes up." 

_If._

_No. When._

Ñolofinwë slid an arm around his brother's waist. "Come home, my dear. It's late." 

"When this is finished." 

A careful pause. "It was not your fault, Fëanáro." 

"Your mother thinks differently." 

"Has she said so?" 

"She does not need to." Fëanáro pulled away from the contact and returned to the workbench. 

Ñolofinwë sighed. "Then I will wait with you. We will return together." 

"I may be some time." 

"I know." Ñolofinwë settled himself on the three-legged stool at his brother's side. Fëanáro never used it; its usual occupant lay in her bed in the palace, her precious head swathed in bandages. "I will stay."


	4. Heartache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the FFFC Bingo prompts, 'Heartache.'

"She would want you to have it." 

Egalmoth ran his fingers over the sword hilt, almost as familiar to him as his own blade.  "Should it not go to you?" 

"No."  Maeglin gave a ragged smile.  "I am right handed.  Like my father." 

The bitterness under the words was keen and cold. 

"Besides," the youth continued, "it seems fitting.  You were her oldest friend." 

Egalmoth looked up sharply.  "She spoke to you of me?" 

"Many times." 

There was a hard, yearning ache in the young voice now.  Egalmoth wondered how things might have been different, for him and for this damaged, grieving creature, if only - 

"Please."  Maeglin closed Egalmoth's fingers over the hilt.  The cool metal thrummed at his touch, like a cat purring at its owner's caress.  It was small for him, of course, but if he held his breath and listened, _felt_ , he could almost hear her calling, laughing, ready with a kiss on the cheek or a lazy, gentle embrace... 

"My lord?" 

He sighed.  "Forgive me." 

"I can adjust it for your reach and grip." 

Egalmoth met his eyes curiously.  "You are a smith?" 

"Yes."  And now there was ice behind the smile, and a flare of darkness.  "Again - like my father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my 'verse, Aredhel is left-handed and carries a curved blade forged for her by Fëanor.  I had forgotten, when I made this decision, that Egalmoth also carries a "bent" sword; when I remembered, I had already started to imagine the two of them as childhood friends, and this final link sealed the deal for me.


	5. Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'Owl' for FFFC bingo.

Soft shadows skittered across the canvas.  Ingwion's slim, clear-lined features were edged in the gentle gold of the candles, eyes sharp, brow unfurrowed as he surveyed the maps spread across the great folding table.  Outside, the fluting call of an owl drifted through the thick night air. 

"Well met, cousin." 

Arafinwë smiled.  It was not the conventional greeting of a prince to a king - Ingwion had not even looked up to acknowledge his entrance - but his cousin had never been one for convention, and there was nobody else around to hear.  "Well met indeed." 

Ingwion did look up then, and raised one golden eyebrow.  "You look dreadful." 

"We are at war; whatever do you expect?"

A smile broke across the features of marble and ice.  "I am glad to see you - truly.  Please, sit." 

Arafinwë sank gratefully into the chair his cousin indicated.  Ingwion made a note on his map, then poured two glasses of red wine and pressed one of them into Arafinwë's hands. 

"Not a very good vintage, I'm afraid, but one does what one can."  He kissed Arafinwë's forehead, and slid into the chair opposite.  "Now, my dear - tell me everything."


	6. What's in a Name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we lose things in translation - and sometimes we find them.
> 
> This was written for B2MeM 2019, in response to the prompt "Golden-haired" on the Glorfindel card. I don't at all promise that it or anything like it will ever appear in the series proper. I just couldn't resist.

Maglor glanced up at his brother's stifled snort. "What is it?"

Celegorm held up a book of children's fairy stories. "I am practising my English."

"And?"

He turned the volume around so that Maglor could see the illustration - three bears peering at a yellow-haired child, who was sound asleep beneath a patchwork quilt. "Brother, if you were to translate Laurëfindë's name for one of your Mortal friends, how would you render it?"

" _Golden locks._ " Maglor's eyebrows flew upwards, and a grin split his face. "Oh..."

Celegorm's eyes glinted wickedly, and the pair of them creased into helpless laughter.


End file.
